The Big Easy Wasteland
by aerielisblacksdale
Summary: New Orleans is a crazy place on its own, let alone 200 years after nuclear war. Meet Ashe, an outcast of Vault 52, as she tries to turn her dreams and hopes of a new New Orleans into a reality.
1. Chapter 1

The Wasteland. It's funny, really. To think that we've survived. Somehow, some way, the human race prevails. Chemical warfare, riots, rebellion... Somehow, none of it stops us. We're too stubborn, I guess. We've been created to persevere, even in the hardest of times. That's what I'd like to believe. That's what I have to believe. I have to believe there's a reason that I long to live. That we long to live. Or else we'd all be dead.

It's the year 2284, 2 centuries after the Great War. There's something about the span of 207 years which I can't quite wrap my head around. 207 years ago, nuclear bombs and missiles were launched across the world, and within minutes, the whole Earth was drastically changed. The trees withered and the flowers wilted, and buildings collapsed upon themselves. Nothing was supposed to survive.

Nothing was **supposed** to survive. The human race nearly wiped itself extinct that day. Maybe we deserved it, too. But some genius built some cavernous holes in the ground here in New Orleans and bam. Human race survives.

But we created a new race, too. Louisiana's water masses absorbed most of the deadly radiation during the bombings, and some of the humans too stupid or poor to find a vault wound up surviving somehow. But with consequences, of course. They've been alive for 200 some odd years. They've watched the people they love die or become feral around them. They're cold for that reason. They're allowed to be cold. At least in my mind they are. I can't imagine.

But there were those of us who haven't seen much of this world. Not yet at least. I was in a Vault. Vault 52, my vault... Well, let's just say it was something of a strange place. My great-great-great grandparents wound up in the cold metal box with a 52 on its gearshift door somehow, and a couple hundred years later, here I am. Except I don't live in Vault 52 anymore. I was cast out.

The Vaults built by Vault-Tec were something of a joke, I hear. They weren't really intended to save us. They were meant to observe us, to see how we reacted to stimuli and new factors. Vault 52 was full of the "voodoo" of New Orleans. Meaning they stuffed crystal balls and tea leaves into every corner they possibly could. Most of us were fascinated by the magic. The spirits of the shadows called to us. That, or we were just going crazy. I think the latter, actually. Definitely the latter.

In Vault 52, the Overseer looks into the crystal ball every now and then and tries to piece together one of the old world prophecies left to us before the war. That's the job of Vault 52, supposedly. We're s'possed to work out this bloody prophecy and then we'll know how to save the world.

Apparently this prophecy involved throwing me out into the Wasteland of New Orleans.

I'd like to believe that it was for a reason, though if I believe in a higher power, I certainly don't believe in the spirits of the shadows. I don't believe that sacrifice and reading palms is the purpose on this Earth that I should serve. I suppose it's good riddance that they threw me out of 52. I never belonged there anyhow.

But that's a story for another time, I suppose. A story.

I've heard all sorts of stories, most of them absolutely awful, but they're stories. You can't believe much in the Wasteland, but I suppose you can trust the stories. They're just stories after all. There was talk of a few wanderers up North in DC who brought water to the whole city, or a Courier out the Mojave who brought the New Vegas Strip to its former glory. Those are the stories I like to believe. I like to believe that the good guys win, and that we let the crazies be crazies elsewhere.

I like to believe that there's hope in this world; this broken, war-torn world. The human race bounces back. It always does.

Because, although war never changes, neither does hope. Hope never changes, either.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ashe," a voice grumbles, distant in the foggy haze of my dreams. "Ashe, wake up."

My eyes open slowly, trying to take in my surroundings. It's early, for one. The sun is barely visible over the murky green water of Lake Ponchartrain. My gaze sweeps my dimly lit room, trying to judge the shadows on the walls from the person who has intruded.

"Over here," the voice calls, more cheerfully this time, and I crane my head to see a dark figure seated on my workbench. "It's your favorite ghoul," he sighs.

Of course. Colton. He's probably headed out for patrols and needs me with him. "Sorry Colton," I yawn, stretching my bare arms above my head. "I couldn't tell who you were in this dark."

He laughs, a deep, raspy sound that echoes in his hollow chest. "S'all good," he sighs, busying his hands with a couple of energy cells on my metal bench. "Gah, how'd you work these again? I can never remember."

He hands me the energy cells, his rough, gory hands tossing the cells carelessly into mine. I always joke about my hands around Colton. I have nimble hands, with small palms and long, lean fingers. They're great for modding, as well as other sciences along those lines. He always kids with me, saying that my hands suit me. Lean, fixer-upper hands for a small lean girl who wants to fix everything on the planet.

I pop the top off of one of the cells, pulling out the bundle of wires inside. "Euh," I shudder as drops of pink, putrid acid drip onto the floor beneath my feet. "You want a screwdriver, Ashe?" Colton asks, fiddling with the jars of tools on my table, but I shake my head. "I've almost got it," I say, twisting the wires of the batteries together. After a moment, I toss him the modded cell and nod. "Completely overcharged," I smile. "I'd make you s'more, but hat's pointless given that I know why you're here."

He shakes his head, blowing air out of his misshapen mouth. "Yeah," he starts, "We need you for patrols. Going to the old hospital today, trying to find some more meds before the infirmary runs out. We're in need of a sharpshooter. And a medic, whilst we're being careful." He stops, eyeing my knowing look and smiles. "You wanna come?"

I stand up, trying to hide the tremor in my knees by brushing a bit of scrap metal off of my faded cotton shorts, and nod. "When do we leave?" I ask, fiddling with the drawers in my desk to try and find my overcharged cell supply.

He pulls up one of the sleeves on his faded combat armor, shifting a faded leather watchband to face upward. "15 minutes, give or take. Meet me at Causeway Plaza." He smiles, indicating the mess of the steel table. "Good luck with that," he finishes, turning and closing the metal door of my aluminum shack.

I sigh, pulling open one of the drawers of my dresser. I throw aside my thin cotton sleepwear for a spandex jumpsuit. When I first learned to sharpshoot, about 6 years ago, I found a suit of ranger armor cast aside in the back closet of an army cadet's shed. It happened to fit me somehow, and after a couple of replacements here and there, it works like new. I snap on the body armor, feeling it pull taut against my skin. There's a cut out for my PipBoy3000, and the small machine on my wrist fits snugly against the armor. Springs in my knees and elbows allow me to move faster and take less of an impact. It feels perfect. Or whatever perfect is these days.

I toss my ranger helmet onto my unmade bed and twist my ink black hair into a knot on top of my head. I catch my eye in the reflection of my mirror and smile. I look like Ashe, like the real Ashe. My green eyes flicker in the dim light, and my pale skin seems to glow against the black metal of the armor. This is Ashe. Not the girl who used to flit about in regal dresses down the halls of a cold metal box. No. That wasn't Ashe. This is Ashe. Or at least it was before they came.

I busy myself with my faded green messenger bag, working at the twisted zippers that cover every pocket. If we're going on a raid, I need to be prepared. Prepared for the worst, that is. I shovel in a few dozen .308's and a box of 9mm rounds, shaking the bag until the contents settled to the bottom. I reach for my red plastic medkit on the table, which I know contains Stimpacks, Med-X, a few Doctor's Bags, and some drugs. You never know when a situation calls for the worst, I suppose. As an afterthought, I shove a small canvas bag of repair parts in the bag, just in case my rifle needs repairing, and walk towards my weapons table.

Everyone is prepared in the Wasteland, even if you are just a 17-year old girl. I sift through the pile of lethal weapons on the table until I find my own weapons. I have to make a living somehow, so I spend most of my time fixing guns and modding weapons here in Causeway. I flick the safety off my 9mm pistol and shove it into a holster on my hip as if it's an inbred habit, and then shift my attention to my real prize. My sniper rifle.

Colton got it for me shortly after I sought refuge here in Causeway. He told me everyone should know how to fire a gun, and because I'd worn out every hunting rifle he could find, he figured it was about time I learned to shoot the "big guns."

What he didn't realize is that, after he gave me this gun, he was going to create one hell of a sniper from a tiny, dark-haired girl.

I check the sights, adjusting the pins of the plastic scope to better align the barrel, and then loaded the barrel with one of my .308s. The ammunition is pretty rare, but I don't waste a bullet of it. It's been a long time since I've missed a shot.

After polishing the barrel, I sling the gun over my shoulder, allowing it to rest at the middle of my back, over my olive canvas messenger bag and between the jutting bones of my shoulder blades. My eyes scan the room, searching for anything else I might need. As an afterthought, I grab an old frag grenade and Colton's pile of overcharged cells. I cram my ranger helmet into the crook of my metal plated elbow.

I fiddle with the metal handle on my door, my fingers shaking in nervous anticipation. I haven't been to New Orleans in at least a few months now... Not since last time... I shudder at the memory... Cold, ghastly hands on me... Bleeding... Pain... Best not to think of last time.

_Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. _I can do this. I'm more than capable of doing this. I close my eyes. _I can do this. _

I reach for the handle yet again, twisting the metal knob and stepping outside. The air is thick and humid; typical Louisiana humidity. The sky has a constant grey-taupe color, as if the ash from the War never left. With light-footed treads I jog my way down Causeway, eyes searching for the Plaza.

Before the War, Causeway used to be a highway. At least, that's what the ghouls say. Apparently it was once the longest continuous bridge in the world or something like that. But now, we use it to live on. I mean it's relatively ideal. Bandits and other threats can only attack from two directions. The citizens of Causeway are all easy to find. And then, of course, the ghouls can always heal. The water is about as irradiated as it can be, but as long as us humans take a Rad-Away or a Rad-X every now and again, we don't suffer too badly. But humans are a minority here in Causeway. Most of the citizens are ghouls, survivors of the war. They seem rough around the edges, always drinking or gambling, but they're pretty friendly. They've seen a broken world. I can only imagine.

My eyes sweep the faded yellow tracks of the road as I jog along the outskirts of the Plaza. The Plaza is where most of the businesses are, from bars to general stores, etc. Occasionally I go in to help Hunter, the ghoul in charge of the infirmary, but typically he doesn't have many patients.

"Ashe!" a deep voice shouts, though unlike Colton's voice, which has raspy grit, this voice is pure, deep and sends tingles up my spine. I know that voice anywhere. _Thorn. _

I jog faster, craning my head to find where Thorn is shouting from. Just as I turn my head, though, I stumble upon a green-clad figure. A green-clad figure with tanned skin and brass hair, and a smile that lights up the sky. "Oh!" I gasp, backing up, "I'm sorry, Hunter! I didn't see you there!" I smile, feeling my cheeks light bright pink. _Damn it. _

He chuckles, placing his hands on my shoulders to steady me. "It's totally fine, Ashe," he replies. "Colton told me you're coming with us today." His smile fades, a concerned look replacing it. "Are you sure you're okay to come? After last tim-"

"I'm fine!" I smile, trying to cover up the nervous tremor that has started in my hands. "Totally fine. Nothing to worry about."

He shakes his head and smiles, though I can see in his eyes that he's doubtful. "Okay, if you're sure. I don't doubt you." He eyes my bag tucked away on my hip. "You got anything special in there?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Nah," I explain, "Typical stuff. Medkit, ammunition, some scrap metal... Bit of food. Oh! And a grenade." He laughs. "Ashe, Ashe, Ashe. Always prepared for the worst." I frown slightly, raising my eyebrows. "I'm not being caught unprepared again," I say, "not after last time."

He nods in understanding. "I know. What happened... It was awful Ashe. But it's not your fault."

I sigh. "I know... I just... It's not comfortable to talk about. That cool?" I ask. He nods, giving me a small smile. "Of course," he replies. "I'm sorry to bring it up."

I'm about to retort a reply when Colton approaches with 2 others. "Right," Colton starts, nodding to his left and his right. "You guys know Tori and Josh. They know you. So the introductions part is over." We all chuckle slightly and wave to the three of them as Colton starts explaining the plan of attack.

"The hospital is abandoned," he explains. "We've been there before, but we've only explored the first two floors. Today we're going to try to tackle the rest of the building." He scans the group, eyes narrowed in concentration. "I'll go solo today, Ashe," he explains. I gulp back a nervous laugh. I used to solo. I was the best solo... But I don't know if I can ever solo again. "Josh, go with Thorn. Ashe and Tori can team up. We'll stick together until we're in the building, and we will all be on the same floor at once. No exceptions." He closes his eyes. "And God help us if _they _show up."

Nobody has to ask who "they" are. We all know. They haunt us. Everyone knows what "they" did to me. What they would do them.

The silence is apparently too haunting, as Hunter claps his hands and heads towards one of the golf carts Causeway was able to restore. "Let's go, shall we?" he asks. We all nod, anxious chat rippling through the 5 of us. I find a bench and seat myself next to Colton, across from Thorn. Josh sits in the drivers' seat, twisting the key to the machine and steering us forward through the paths of Causeway.

"Hang on, everyone!" Josh calls back. "We've got an ETA of half an hour. Until then, I suggest trying to relax. Something tells me today's trip will be a long one."


	3. Chapter 3

**Thud. Bang. **The cart bumps its way over the broken remains of I-10, jostling the passengers inside with every pothole or fragment of asphalt or concrete. Most of the interstate is elevated, yet still intact, which gives us a great view of the broken city around us. It's darkly beautiful, in a way. The skeletons of the taller buildings towards central New Orleans gleam in the faded sun. Around us, the remains of the business district appear, however, to be rotting.

The large oak trees that used to line the streets of the city lie askew. Some are knocked over; others lean precariously onto its other brethren, as if holding on for dear life. It was almost as if we were staring at a graveyard of the once very lively city.

The cart shifts to the far right of the highway, under the signs labeled "Superdome" and a few street names. Apparently the Superdome was some sort of pre-war arena, where they hosted tournaments and such. God only knows what it's hosting now. I shudder at the thought of the civilizations that might be there, and try to cast away thoughts of the various cultists and witches in the crumbling remains of this broken city.

In the distance, I can make out the faded remains of the hospital. It used to be some sort of university hospital before the war; apparently it used to be the best in the state. It's barely been touched, which is almost eerie to ponder... Untouched supplies, untouched machinery... Though my last visit showed that we aren't the only ones scavenging the building.

"We're almost there, everyone," Josh calls over the engines, his thick, sinewy hands reaching up to adjust the mirror in the center of the cart. "Ready your weapons... Just in case." His faded red eyes quickly flick to mine, and then shift back to the road ahead, as if he's ashamed to even utter the words. My spine aches with numbness, and I feel suddenly aware of everything around me, as if anyone could reach out any second, with their gruesome hands and their cold voices and whisper, oh god whis-

"Ashe, you alright?" Thorn asks, shaking my knee. I snap upright, my senses on high alert. "Yeah," I reply weakly. "Yeah, I just... Thought I saw something. Just a mole rat. No biggie." I chuckle nervously, trying to cover up the fear that must be registering on my face.

Thorn grabs my arms, trying to calm me. I flinch at the sudden touch. _Damn it. _He must have noticed that. I notice the hurt register on his face a second before he wipes it away. "What happened last time is not going to happen again. I'm not going to let them get to you. Do you understand?"

I turn away, trying to hide the pain and fear mingling on my face. "I don't want them to... I don't want..." I stutter, not daring to finish my sentence, not daring to admit that any of it was ever true. Thorn shakes me slightly, trying to get my attention. "Ashe," he starts, "Snap out of it. I wish I could baby you now, but I can't." he sighs. "What I can do is make sure that you're in the right state of mind to carry out one of our biggest raids in a while. We need you alert. We need you to relax."

I turn to face him and stare into his grey eyes, taking a deep breath as I do so. _In. Out. In. Out. _"Okay," I sigh, straightening up. "Okay." Thorn manages a small smile. "Tori'll take good care of you. And if you feel uncomfortable, just call me. Okay?" he flashes me a grin, and though I know it's forced, I still feel warm, even for a moment.

I've had feelings for Thorn for a while now, though I've become more aware of them over the past months. He's always been there since... Well... Since the incident. He's tried to support me, and he's the only one who understands that I need time. Plus he's cute... But he still can't mask the dark corners of my heart. He can't rid me of them.

Josh steers the cart into the hospital's parking garage, shifting the vehicle to the ground floor parking and turning the ignition until the engine sputters to silence. He jumps out the front seat, holding a ripper in one fading hand and a handful of dynamite in the other. He tosses me a stick, smiling a crooked smile. "You smoothskins don't know how to have fun anymore," he laughs, pulling a lighter out of his pocket and throws it into the air.

I toss the dynamite back to him, forcing a giggle through my closing throat, and try to smile. "Nah, I'm good Josh. Thanks though." He chuckles, catching the dynamite in his meaty hands. "Typical smoothskin."

Colton walks towards me and pats me on the arm. "You ready?" It's a simple question, harmless even, but it sends tremors up my spine. "Yep!" I manage to choke out, taking my pistol in hand. "Never been better!"

Colton tilts his head knowingly and sighs, walking towards the others and asking them the same question. But it's different for me. I'm the one who's been hurt. I'm the one who fears for her life today.

"Move out!" Colton calls, jogging towards the main hospital building. I take off after him, Tori following behind me, her long red hair trailing behind her. I think she could be pretty, if she wasn't so severe. Her long, tied-back hair makes her features seem all the more angular, and she never smiles. She always seems downcast, as if she's remembering something she's lost. But she's one hell of a killer, and she doesn't seem to mind the rest of us, so we're all good.

She comes into step beside me, a plasma pistol in hand. "Never got to thank you for fixing this," she drawls, indicating her weapon. "Shoots better than it ever did before thanks to you." I nod, smiling slightly. "It's no problem, Tori," I reply, "Anything to help."

Before she can answer, we reach the thick glass doors of the hospital. Thorn walks forward, tossing his pistol, and stares at the console on the side of the door. He presses a few buttons, and after a moment, the doors slide open. He laughs in surprise. "Password didn't automatically update from last time!" he shouts with glee. Thorn is a hacker, so it's no surprise that this brings him happiness.

With a start, we walk forward inside the hospital. The lights come on automatically, and I start for my gun when Colton stops me. "They come on when the hospital's unlocked," he explains. "There's nobody here." The words echo across the barren halls. Nobody here. Nobody here.

"4th floor," Colton says as we walk towards the elevator bay. Josh reaches the steel doors and slaps the upwards arrow with such force I worry he may shatter the wall. The door beeps and then opens, and we walk quickly inside. I walk forward and delicately press the button labeled "4," and the elevator shoots up.

Colton looks all of us over, ensuring we have our needed supplies. "Split up into pairs, just like I said," he begins explaining. "We're looking for anything we can use in the infirmary. Blood packs, Stimpacks, Mentats, Morphine... We'll take it all. If you aren't sure, ask Ashe. She can probably tell you best."

The elevator beeps again, and the doors open to a clear, pristine hallway. Tori takes my hand and guides me down the hallway, through a few sets of doors until we reach a row of in-patient rooms. "You ready?" she asks, her face set in severe planes of concentration. I gulp back a nervous squeak and nod, my hands shaking.

She pulls a screwdriver from her pocket and begins to jimmy the lock, pulling a bobby pin from her hair. She's been teaching me, and I can manage most of the average locks lying around. There isn't a lock Tori can't pick, however. In a matter of seconds, she bends the bobby pin and the small springs in the lock click into place. She smiles and opens the door, her pistol drawn as a precaution.

There's no one in the room, of course. In fact, the room appears to have been left untouched since the War. A thin layer of dust has settled over the room. A small hospital bed lies untouched in the center of the room, its baby blue sheets tucked tighter than a drill sergeant's. The other side of the room has a small rocking chair and a thick wall of synthetic wood cabinets, all locked.

Tori walks straight to the cabinets, handing me a small flathead screwdriver and a bobby pin from her hair. "Lots of locks to pick," she sighs. "We'd best get started."

I kneel below the cabinets' small steel countertop and begin to work at one of the larger cabinets. Cramming the screwdriver into the keyhole, I jerk it around until it fits comfortably in the opening, and then, using the bobby pin, use the blunt end to push the springs inside the lock up against the metal walls of the lock. It isn't exactly easy to pick locks, but it's not rocket science. After a moment, the springs give, and the cabinet door swings open.

To my delight, the cabinet is filled with various tools and meds. I open my canvas bag at my hip and begin to shovel in empty plastic syringes, the needles encased in disposable plastic tips. They've never been touched. My eyes settle on various vials of liquid at the back, of the cabinet, and I reach for them, reading the labels swiftly and throwing the meds I deemed desirable into my pack.

I can't shake the feeling, however, that someone is watching me. I peer at the empty doorway behind me, expecting to see one of them, the... the things, or their pets, but there's nothing. The only audible noises are the shuffling of meds and the warm voices of my team.

I try to distract myself, focusing on my task at hand. _Ah, pill bottles! Hooray for pills! Ibuprofen, Paracetamol, names I can't even pronounce. _

Tori has already opened the cabinets above me, and is beginning to shovel out various blood packs from one of the larger containers. "Hey Ashe," she calls down to me, "do we need any more A positive?"

"Nah, we're good on blood for the most part. Ghouls don't need much of that."

She laughs, though her laugh is still cold and harsh. "Yeah," she chuckles, "how many of us humans are there anyhow? 6?"

I sigh, shaking my head. "Prolly something like that."

Causeway was founded right after the Great War, by the ghouls who survived. They thought that it would be a good idea to settle somewhere secluded, and since they were the only ones who weren't tucked away in metal boxes, they built Causeway and have lived there ever since. Those of us who are, well, human for lack of a better word, were only refugees, or their descendants. Causeway is a big settlement, but it's hard to find a non-ghoul in the masses of the town.

I finish clearing my cabinet and then set work picking the next lock on the cabinet, until I find a rhythm. "Amoxicillin, need. Weak influenza strain 453, don't need." I whisper to myself, trying to keep myself calm and in-stride with Tori. I can't shake the spine-tingling feeling that I'm being watched, however. Like... Like one of them is watching me.

Tori tosses a stethoscope down to me, a smirk on her face. "Figure you probably could use one of these, given you're one of the 2 doctors in town." I smile, accepting the instrument and positioning it on my neck. "Thanks Tori," I say, "this'll come in handy if I ever need to-"

Suddenly, a crash echoes down the hallway, followed by shrieking voices, loud and very audible. They certainly don't belong to any members of our team. Tori looks up from her sorting, tilting her head in slight surprise and grabbing for her pistol, holstered on her hip. She looks towards me, eyes frozen in a mask of what I could only guess in terror. "Ashe?" she whispers.

But I can't think. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I reach for my own pistol. _God no. _I cock the gun; pressing the grip into the palm of my hand so tightly my knuckles pale to a stark white. "They're here," I whisper, staring at the doorframe with eyebrows raised. My knees tremble in fear and anticipation. They're here.

Tori doesn't waste a second. She crams a few energy cells into the small gun and crouches, ducking against the frame of the door. "Hallway clear, so far," she whispers. "We can try to secure this floor first, or eliminate all outside threats."

I'm at the window in a flash, cramming my pistol back into its holster at my hip. I reach for my rifle, ripping it from my shoulders and pressing it into my lean, muscled shoulder. Tori pops the locks on the window, yanking the glass frame upwards. She then runs to close the door, tossing me my ranger helmet as she goes. I throw the tech onto my head, switching the lights and sensors on.

I crawl out onto the window's ledge, crouching beneath the panes of glass. I aim down the scope of my sniper, scanning the area for any possible threats. And that's when I spot them.

They're hiding, and they're doing a pretty good job of it. Without the helmet's integrated infrared sensors, I would've never spotted them. A group of about 10 loom behind the old, busted car frames in the hospital's parking lot.

"There's 10," I whisper, my voice shaking in fear. "Probably another 10 already inside." She gasps, barely audible, but I still catch it. She's afraid. She gulps, taking a deep breath, and then slowly letting the air out through her closed lips. "Shoot to kill," she whispers.

I swallow, closing my eyes. _Concentrate, Ashe. _I pull the gun to my shoulder again, pressing the scope against the red shield of my helmet. I aim slightly above the head, quickly working the distance of my gun from the target and the slight breeze.

I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. I exhale the building carbon dioxide from my lungs, pulling the trigger as I do so. The gun kicks against my shoulder, and I grunt slightly at the impact. The bullet finds its mark however, and the target explodes into a shower of glowing green flesh and blood.

Tori exhales in relief, though we both know that there are still more to go. The leftover Glowing Ones outside shriek and run from cover, sprinting towards the hospital.

I shudder as I remember their hands on me, the pulsing of pure radiation in their veins. And their voices, their whispers...

They can't find us. They can't find me.

Just as I take aim at another head, the door behind us bursts open, and half a dozen ghouls pour into the room, shrieking in delight. Tori shoots two of them with her pistol, aiming deftly to compensate for lack of space. I shoot one with my rifle, cringing at the recoil lacing up my arm.

There are too many, however, and Tori screams as a Glowing One reaches her, pulling her arms in impossible angles behind her back. I hear the bones in her shoulders snap as she screams in agony. "Ashe!" she yells, "Ashe run!"

But I'm frozen. I know why they're here. I know exactly why they are here. And it's certainly not for Tori. No, I know they want to dispose of Tori. They are here for me.

The Glowing Ones grab my shoulders. I try to writhe away from them, squealing as I go, but one clamps its hand over my mouth, silencing my cries. They drag me down the hallway as I writhe against them, trying to escape their grasp.

_Let me go. _My insides boil. Fear replaces the beating heart in my chest, and bubbling adrenaline courses through my veins. _Let me go. _

_ Let me go. Or kill me. _I desire death more than I want to live, at least while I'm in the Glowing Ones' grasp. Because as long as I'm dead, they can't torture me. They can't poke and prod me and electrocute me.

As long as I'm dead, they can't take me to **_him._**


	4. Chapter 4

It is cold. It is so cold. And dark. Why is it so dark? Where am I? What am I doing? The thoughts course their way through my head as I try to make sense of my surroundings. _What happened? _The confusion pulses at the back of my mind. My eyes dart around in the inky darkness, trying to take in some form of light. Nothing. The sensors on my helmet are still on, but they don't detect any heat activity. The integrated night vision provides no help in this darkness, however. I am literally blind.

_Where am I? _I tighten the muscles in my gut, trying to sit up, but I struggle against the force of something thick and tight holding me down. A straightjacket. _Where'd they get a straight jacket? _I flex the muscles in my fingers, the only joints willing to move. There is a strange pulling sensation in my knuckles that I can only assume is the length of a needle inserted into one of my arteries. _I have to get out. I have to get out. _I struggle against the rough bonds, willing every inch of muscle within me to move somehow, but all that results is a pounding headache. Beads of perspiration gather in the creases of my forehead, not from the effort, but from the strong sense of déjà vu.

This is exactly what happened last time.

Memories flood my head, of the Glowing Ones and their... assistants. Judging by my consciousness and the strange needle in my arm, I can only assume that they're loading me with a bit of Med-X before they load me up with all the radiation they can find...

_Escape. Escape. _The thought pulses through my head faster than the racing of my heart. I have to remind myself to breathe. I inhale, pressing as much air into my lungs as I can, before allowing the leftover carbon dioxide to release into the air.

They'll come to get me soon. They'll come and find me, and then before I know it I'll be dying again, slow and painful, as they inject me with chems and I can't-

Distraction. I need a distraction from the inevitable. Something to keep me sane so I can figure out a way out of here. I find myself silently counting in French to try to keep myself from losing it in an air-locked cell out in the middle of God knows where.

_"Un, deux, trois..."_

In the Vault, education included language and various history lectures on the culture of New Orleans. The Vault's supposed "purpose" was to maintain a culturally thriving New Orleans. We were cultured in the settlement and history of Louisiana, the dual languages in parts of the state, the music, the food.

And of course, the voodoo.

_"Quatre, cinq, six..."_

I hear that New Orleans wasn't covered in witchcraft, though. At least, not like it is now. Apparently the city was called the Big Easy, because everyone was friendly and you could make a living by just playing a washboard on a street corner. The ghouls say it used to be friendly by day, and mysterious by night. Apparently there was a region of the city called the French Quarter where they had grand parades and threw plastic beaded necklaces out of giant vehicles. Sometimes they even threw food.

I always found that ironic. Why throw food when you can eat it? Seems illogical, given that non-irradiated food is scarce nowadays. But I suppose there was plenty to go around before government leaders started pushing buttons.

_"Sept, huit, neuf-"_

Before I can count to ten, a flash of blinding light appears to my left, followed by footsteps and whispering voices. My gut cinches in fear. _They're here. _I squint, trying to judge how many green glowing figures have entered the room. One of them flicks on a light switch and fluorescent tubes light in blue above me, followed by a shower of sparks.

One of the monsters approaches me, beginning to unclasp the bonds that hold my arms to my sides. "Now, Miss Ashe," he begins, "I believe you remember the drill. There is a needle in your wrist right now, currently acting as nothing but a strange piece of metal in your hand. But if you try to run," he says, holding up a slim remote, "I will press a button which will send a jet of hydrochloric acid through your veins. Can you tell me what will happen once I do that?" his putrid hands grasp my chin, pulling my face up so my eyes meet his. "Well?"

I take a deep breath, clenching my jaw shut. "Hydrochloric Acid, abbreviated HCl." I suck in a lungful of air through gritted teeth. "When in contact with my bloodstream, it will send the acid straight to my heart, brain, and other organs, meaning that my veins will melt and that my organs will sputter to failure. Ultimately, I will either die of suffocation or heart failure. Or both."

The creature nods, grimacing to reveal a row of glowing white teeth. "Precisely," he replies, obviously pleased with my willingness to behave. "Come," he demands, gripping my hand in his, and walking forward. The other Glowing Ones (there are 2 others) follow behind me, walking in perfect stride behind us.

The Glowing One grasping my hand looks over at me for a moment. "I'm sure you remember me," he sneers. "I am Xetor, as you probably already know."

The memories come flooding back. Xetor, the thing that injected me with various chemical cocktails and half-drowned me in a pit of irradiated water. The man who stripped me of my clothing and prodded me with electrodes until my skin bled.

A violent shudder runs up my spine. Xetor, looking pleased, reverts his eyes to the hallway in front of him. His simple black shoes squeak slightly against the stark tile floors of the passage. I look down at my feet, which look impossibly small compared to his. My armor is spattered with a combination of blood and liquid radation, dirt and dust. I look strong, like I was in a brawl against a Deathclaw and a Yao Guai and survived. But on the inside, I feel weak. I feel powerless. A button controls my existence. A button and a horde of horrifying green creatures.

Xetor stops at a large, metal doorway. He flicks his arm forward, pulling me close to him. He reaches into one of the pockets on his fading lab coat and retrieves a small aluminum key, which he inserts into a set of small locks on my straight jacket. He twists the locks, and after a moment of fiddling with the small keyholes, the straight jacket falls away, revealing my beaten ranger armor underneath. He jerks his hands to my helmet, pulling it off my head with brute force before tossing it to the ground. My hair falls out in a curtain of ink, untouched from today's events.

Xetor tilts his head at me, a mix of pride and ruthlessness behind his white, gleaming eyes. "You're a pretty thing," he shrugs, an evil grin spreading across his face. "Shame you're an essential."

_Essential. _The words burn behind my eyes, branding the letters into my skull. Essential. I am essential to their master plan. I am essential to **_him. _**

Xetor shoves me through the doorway, a mask of pride glowing across his face. Literally. "He's waiting for you in there." He snarls.

Painstakingly, I force my legs to walk forward. Every inch sends shivers down my arms. Alarms are going off in my head, telling me to stop, telling me to run. But I can't. I have to stay. Or they'll kill me faster.

There is a chair in the center of the room, next to a small fire. A large pot sits atop the flames, gas streaming from the center. Sitting on the floor next to it, surrounded by candles and incense, is a man, legs crossed in incantation.

He is shockingly young, with stark white hair and deep olive skin. His eyes are closed, though I know behind his eyelids his eyes are a bright violet, almost piercing.

As I approach, he sits straighter, aware of my presence. The flames resting atop the candles near his feet waver. The man grins, inhaling the sharp, sweet smell of incense before opening his mouth.

"Hello, Ashe," he says softly.

I shiver, and suppress a scream. "Hello, Overseer."


	5. Chapter 5

"Hello, Overseer."

He opens his eyes, which pierce the air with their bright lavender haze. He blinks a few times; his thick blonde lashes brushing his gaunt cheeks. He lowers his eyebrows, gazing at me with ferocious intensity that makes my knees buckle. The intensity of his gaze hardens as his eyes trace their way down my body, lingering on my lips slowly before meeting my eyes again.

The Overseer stands, quickly and with such grace it is almost shocking. He extends his hand, lightly grasping my wrist and pulling me towards him. His other hand brushes my jaw, tilting my chin up slightly so as to perfect his gaze over the planes of my face.

"Ashe," he whispers, pulling his mouth close to my ear, "it is good to see you again."

I flinch at his closeness, gritting my teeth as his warm breath runs down the back of my neck. "What," I manage to choke out, breathing quickly. "What do you want from me?"

He moves his lips from my ear, taking a neutral position in front of me. His gaze, however, does not soften. Instead, he lowers his eyebrows further, as if pondering the question. "What do I want?" he purrs. "You know very well what I would like, Miss Ashe. You just do not have the will to give it to me."

I shudder at the memories of my last stay, thinking of his cold hands gripping my arms tightly, staring me down as his men demanded to know who I was. To know what I was.

"I told you last time," I whistle between my clenched teeth, "I don't know anything. I don't believe in black magic, or the arcane arts."

His gaze grows cold at my words. His eyes narrow and his hands clench into fists down at his size. "Very well," he whispers furiously, "I suppose we will have to find ways to get you to... cooperate." He lingers on the word for a moment, letting it hang loose in the air, as though it were a curtain of fearful disposition or a mantra to the torture which I know will ensue.

The Overseer's eyes lift to the corner of the dim room, where Xetor is standing at guard. "Xetor," he calls. The Glowing One tenses, alert and ready for orders. "Fetch the girl some clothes. I can assure you she will be here awhile." Xetor rushes to the door, his steps perfectly synchronized. "And close the door behind you. I believe I need to have a private word with Miss Ashe."

Xetor nods, resuming his pace, throwing the door open and slamming it behind him. When his servant leaves, his arms dart to my shoulders, pushing me against one of the red brick walls of the room. I am too shocked to try to fight, frozen in fear as the man places his icy olive hands on my face, tilting my chin up towards the ceiling as he runs his lips lightly up the side of my neck.

"Do you have any idea what I can do to you?" he whispers angrily, his grip on me tightening with every word. "Do you?" He brings his face close to mine, so close that his nose touches mine, and I can nearly taste his foul breath, a mix of incense and vodka and smoke. "I will break you, Ashe Vamoria." I cringe at the sound of my full name, of the surname that will haunt me forever.

The Overseer locks his eyes with mine, as though he is an animal trying to show his dominance. He is trying to show his dominance. And though I won't show it, I am more terrified of this man than I am of any other thing on the face of this war-torn planet. More scared of anything in this galaxy, this universe. This eternity. He is the man who lurks in the shadows of my dreams. He is the man who whispers my fears into my ears before I sleep, so that I may sleep and be ravaged by the thought of his face and his hands... His lifeless hands, limp and cold like the spirits he believes so strongly in.

I do believe in darkness. I do. I believe in darkness because I have seen it for myself. I believe that there is an evil greater than this world, which stands and snickers as the evils of the world consume us. Consume me. But I do not believe they are the highest power. No, I believe there is something greater. I believe in light. I believe that there is something out there that is deeper than even the depths of all evils. There has to be. Or where would hope be without it?

The Overseer slowly slides his hands down my shoulders, to the tips of my fingers, brushing his hands with mine before agonizingly pushing them back up to my shoulders. Every inch leaves my knees trembling. He can control me. He knows he has that power over me. He knows that he scares me enough to make me want to flee. He controls me and it makes my skin crawl with anxiety. He controls me and I can't force myself to stop believing it.

He slowly turns his head, grazing my ear with his lips before leaning down to rest against it. "You are a unique girl, Ashe," he whispers. I freeze. "You are very unique, and not just because my prophecy says so. You are unique to me." I cough, trying to swallow the small shriek building in the hollow of my throat. "You are mine, Ashe Vamoria. You are mine and forever will you be. No one will find you here. Nobody will search for you, and if they do, they will lay dead at the feet of my servants. I control you. I manipulate you. You are mine. You are mine." I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the sound of his voice, the brush of his lips against my ear. _Wake up, Ashe. Wake up. _

The Overseer runs his hands through the tips of my hair, running his fingers through it as though I am a prize of sorts. That I am a possession. That I belong to him. "You know what the prophecy says, Ashe," he reminds me. Ice runs down my spine. "You are to die. You are to be made a sacrifice." I am choking on air. "I could do all sorts of things to you," he says softly. "I could cut you, or drown you, or brand you with my name. I could tear your pale flesh from your arms, inch by agonizing inch, and when you passed out from the pain, I could inject you with Jet, forcing you to wake up and endure the torture over and over again. I could electrocute you, so your life systems give out slowly and you're forced to die burning alive."

He leans closer, so close that I swear I may suffocate, and whispers, barely audible, "I could do as I did to your parents, Ashe. I could do as your pathetic parents who never loved you deserved." My breath hitches in my throat. "I could shoot you mercilessly. I could pretend you were nothing to me. I could try to pretend." He screams manically, shoving me away from him as he turns abruptly and paces around his fire pit. "Why are you the essential? Why are you the sacrifice?" My stomach writhes in fear at the word sacrifice. I am the sacrifice. "What is so special about a pretty 17 year old ex-witch from Vault 52?" He groans, knotting his fingers into his snow-white hair, twisting his face into a quizzical frown.

"I will find what it is, Ashe." His eyes glitter maliciously. "I will find what makes you special. And once I find it, you can be sure I will kill you. I will kill you and enjoy every moment of it."

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. _

_...Eleven. Twelve. _

Seven by twelve feet. Those are the dimensions of my room. Or more so cell. It locks from the outside, and the lock is impossible to pick with just a bobby pin. I'd need a screwdriver, and even still it would take me days to press the springs into the right places.

It is a decent cell, I have to give them that. The walls are a flat grey, the floors the same white tile that stretches the building. There is a twin-sized bed pressed against one wall, covered with tidy white sheets and a pillow. Across from the bed is a small steel table. Set atop it is a tidy stack of clothing and a couple of pre-war books. In the corner of the room there is a small, steel-tub sink. Simple, yet clean. It is far from the cell of my last visit, which was an old closet without furnishings. At least this one has a bed.

I lean back against the wall, resting my head against the cool grey plaster. The rush of today swims before my eyes in a fog of emotion. The haze of action from sunrise until now is almost too much to comprehend. One thing, however, is easy to understand: the fact that the Overseer of Vault 52 has captured me, and he is going to torture me.

And then he is going to kill me.

I shudder, the tremors starting in my feet and working their way up, through my calves and knees, all the way until it reaches my ears, sending a wild tingling rushing through them. I can't escape. I can't leave. My death is inevitable.

And yet, I will still escape.

I have to make a plan. I have to leave. And for now, that involves me earning my captors' trust. I have to earn the Overseer's trust. And for now, that means relaxing.

I stand up straight, taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling it through my nose and mouth. Hunched from the exhaustion of today, I lazily make my way to the small table and sort through the pile of clothes left for me. I unfold a shirt slowly, thinking of laundry day back at Causeway. My heart aches at the thought of Colton and Thorn. _I'll see them again. I'm getting out of here. _

I lay out the remaining clothes, trying to take inventory of my supplies. My pack was taken from me, but luckily I was able to sneak my PipBoy under their noses. It is relatively useless, except for its map and health features. According to the world map, I'm in an abandoned building in the remnants of Marrero, about 30 miles south of Causeway. It's a long drive on a golf cart, and even still, on foot it's a few day trek, steering clear of bandits. It's hard to say if any of my squad will know where I am, let alone what happened to me. My mind flashes to Tori, with her curtain of velvet hair, her eyes frozen in fear as the Glowing Ones wrapped their arms around her. I can almost hear the sickening grinding of bone, cringing as the memory darts through my head. If she's alive, she'll know what happened. But a dawning realization lingers, no matter how hard I try to push it away, that she may have been killed.

I shiver, suddenly very cold. I sort through the stacks of clothing until I find a decent outfit: a plain t-shirt, some faded blue jeans, and an old pre-war jacket, its double-breasted buttons still stitched to the dark blue fabric of the coat. Shrugging, I pull it on, trying to see the positive in my situation, though the only two that I can come up with are one, I'm still alive, and two, I'm better off now than I was last time I was here. At least I have food and clothes now.

I roll up the left sleeve of my coat to reveal my PipBoy, display still dark from the wires I was able to pull. I unlatch the pegs that hold the device together, pulling it from my wrist to reconnect the two wires that light the interface. After a slight spark, the machine gives a familiar beeping sound, and the interface lights up with its usual display of my condition. The small device gives me the telltale beeping that tells me I could probably use a round of Med-X and some sleep due to some internal bruising, but I'm not crippled or dying, so I flip the medical notifications off.

Just as I'm about to sit down, however, the device hums a burst of static, notifying me that it has found a new radio frequency. I discard it to the back of my mind. _Prolly just Causeway radio. _I let out a large sigh and jump onto my bed, cocooning myself in the thin cotton sheets and allowing myself to drift off to sleep. Though I hate to admit it, I am exhausted, and some rest would do me good. I heave a yawn just before my eyes close and I succumb to exhaustion.

Through the weary haze of sleep, my heart pulls in my chest, beating too strong. The alarms in my head all blare, trying to alert me that something is off. _What could be off? Think, Ashe. _

What do I know? I am Ashe Vamoria. I am 17 years old. I am a resident of Causeway. Currently, I'm in a relatively large abandoned building in Marrero, Louisiana. The Overseer of Vault 52 is holding me here. He is going to research me, and then he is going to execute me, just as the spirits wish.

I had a pack of supplies that has most likely been sorted and then discarded. My sniper rifle is missing, as is my pistol. I have nothing but my ranger armor, a few sets of pre-war and merc clothes, and my-

My PipBoy.

My eyes spark awake, my body jolting upright with realization. I spin the dial on the machine to 'Data,' spinning each wheel until the 'Radio' HUD pops up.

Causeway hasn't had a radio station in at least a year. The satellite broke down and nobody thought to repair it. The citizens of Causeway typically hold concerts and such to listen to old pre-war classics, dancing and swaying about as they remember the old days, before the world became a giant microwave.

Causeway doesn't have a radio station.

'RADIO STATION FOUND' the HUD alerts me. I dismiss the message, my heart sparking in curiosity and a deep-running emotion that I can only associate with hope.

'STATION FOUND: Unknown Signal: Radio 0014'

I'm not sure what sort of station Radio 0014 is, but whatever it may be, it brings me joy. It could be a distress call, or a party alert, or a town nearby. It could be anything, really. But it gives me hope. Humanity is nearby. Somewhere within walking distance, there is a person, or a group of people, or a whole civilization who can help me.

For once today, I'm not alone.


	6. Chapter 6

The dim display of the PipBoy lights up the room in a grey-green haze. My fingers tremble slightly as I reach to spin the dial, turning past out-of-reach radio stations across the Wasteland before landing on the strip labeled 'Radio 0014.' A burst of static pops through the speakers of the small machine. "C'mon," I mutter to myself, fiddling with a handful of wires on the device to try to increase the range of my receiver. "Just a few more-"

**_Clunk. _**My eyes fly up, darting around the room. The knob on my door is jiggling slightly. Someone is coming into my room. In a flurry of panic, I wrap the wires of my PipBoy around my fingers and pull, snapping a few of them, before yanking the device off my arm and tossing it under my pillow.

The door is thrown open, slamming against the wall with a sickening crunch. Xetor walks in, glowing head held high, carrying a platter. Upon seeing me, with my eyes wide and arms trembling, he cocks his head to the side, confused. "What are you doing?" he inquires.

I swallow, feeling a lump rise in my throat. He can't know about my PipBoy. He'll take it, and it's my only chance of escape. "I," I begin. _Lie. Lie! _I fake a yawn, mimicking exhaustion, and lower my eyelashes. "You woke me. I didn't realize you needed anything more from me tonight, so I figured I would get some rest." I cross my arms across my chest. "Apparently I was wrong."

Xetor nods, meeting my gaze. "My apologies, miss," he responds. He places the tray he is carrying on my table. "I was bringing you a bit of food, as well as some medicine for the injuries you may have sustained on your... journey here." He lingers on the word, knowing that it was not my choice to come here. He steps away from the table and walks to the door. "We will retrieve you tomorrow morning."

With that he leaves the room, closing the door behind him. I hear a series of clicks and then a small bang, signifying that the door is locked. I wait a few moments to be sure I'm alone, before rushing to my bed. Throwing the pillow aside, I scramble for the scraps of wires and swear. "Damn it," I curse under my breath. The wires are mess, barely salvageable if at all. A few of the circuit boards are cracked, hanging together by a few millimeters of copper wire. It would take me a day or two back at Causeway to fix it, and that's with spare parts, tools, and 12 hours of solitude. Here, the device may be impossible to fix.

"There goes Radio 0014," I whisper to myself, numbly tossing the scraps back under my pillow. I'll have to start repair tomorrow, and even still, it will take me a solid week, maybe more, to receive radio signals again. Sighing, I hop down from my bed and walk over to my table, where Xetor has left my tray.

Lying atop the flat sheet of aluminum is a box of Salisbury steak, a box of Dandy Boy apples, a small bottle of purified water. Not the most appetizing food in the world, but it's something at least. Next to the bottle of water is a small red tin. Curiously, I open the hood of the tin and dump the contents onto the steel table. Standard med supplies, from what I can tell. A few bandages, some Med-X, a few Stimpacks, and some Rad-X and Rad-Away.

Using my fingers, raw and bleeding from the events of the day, I tear open the box of Salisbury steak, munching on the 200-year-old food. It tastes like paper, which I guess is okay, given that it's a couple centuries old. The apples are a bit easier to swallow, and with a few sips of purified water, the meal disappears before my eyes. I can feel a bit of energy pulsing through my satisfied veins as I remove the sterile plastic caps on the Med-X and Stimpacks. I press the Med-X into an artery in my neck, feeling the effects of the chem as it races through my veins. Pulling my shirt over my head, I find an area of tenderness in my torso. A few of my ribs are cracked, I think. I push the needle up under the bones, gritting my teeth as the needle sinks into my angry muscles. Quickly, I press down the plunger and yank the needle from my skin, waiting for the medicine to take effect.

I decide to leave the radiation stuff for the days ahead, however. Last time I checked my Geiger counter, well, before it broke that is, the meter was at about 150. By morning, I'll probably have a bit of radiation sickness, but not anything life-threatening. I place the pills and IV drip back into the tin container and place it onto my sink. I'll need them in the days ahead.

Though the meal gave me a stunt of energy, it isn't enough to keep my weighted eyelids open. With a deep yawn, I toss myself onto the rumpled sheets of my bed, close my eyes, and drift off, the sound of clinking metal under my pillow lulling me to sleep.

_ The heavy footsteps of men's boots echo through the hallways. "They're coming," I think to myself as I hear the men come closer, the rhythmic beat of their stride pulsing in my ears. The darkness contorts inside of me, writhing in my gut. One of the men laughs, though unlike the gravelly voices of the Glowing Ones, this voice sounds clear, smooth as the surface of the lake in the springtime._

_ "We don't have much time," a raspy voice says sharply. Though I can't tell without seeing their face, I think the voice came from Dalton. Or Xetor, but he's most likely readying the lab for my... examination._

_ I look down at my arms, wincing at the bloody mess. The skin is shredded, and though the bleeding stopped last night, the crimson has dried on my arms, leaving an oozing, gory mess behind. No doubt it'll be infected in the next few days... Though I suppose that that's just one more thing for the Overseer to study._

_ In the sterile, pearly tiles of the wall, I can barely make out my reflection, though it is there. The skin of my face is pulled taut, stretching over the hollows of my facial bones. The shadows under my eyes and lacerations on my face draw attention to the weakness coursing through my veins. My hair is matted with blood, some of it falling off in thin sections._

_ I am animal. But yet even still, I do not have the pleasure of my fight or flight response. I am a tool. I cannot run. I cannot fight. Unless..._

_ The men come closer, the thuds of their boots louder and their harsh whispers harder to ignore. Slowly, I slink towards the corner of the room where a pile of my bloody clothes lay. I pick through the pile of clothes, pulling aside the bloody folds of fabric to reveal a small dagger. "I need to escape," I whisper to myself, clutching the knife in my hand, hidden from sight._

_The door to my cell opens, and the Overseer walks in. He looks down at the dried blood on the floor of my cell and shakes his head in disgust. "We need to get you cleaned up," he sneers, looking me over. "Dalton!" he calls. The Glowing One comes forward, eager to serve his master. "Take her to the showers, get her stitched up, and then Xetor has some exams ready for her."_

_He grimaces, turning to leave, when I grasp for his pant leg. "Overseer!" I cry, reaching out to catch him. He turns to me, face frozen in a cold stare. "Yes, Mrs. Vamoria?" _

_"I just had a question," I respond weakly, shifting the knife into one of my hands. "Where is Dalton taking me?"_

_He laughs, a cold, dark sound. "Lab 5," he responds, turning and beginning to walk out the door._

_"No, he isn't," I reply, tightening my grip on the small knife in my palm. _

_The Overseer stops in his tracks. "And why is this, Miss Vamoria?"_

_Quickly, I throw myself at Dalton, lunging at his head and grasping his shoulders in my filthy hands. Before either of them has time to react, I jam the knife against Dalton's neck, slicing the tendons and arteries in his neck. With a bubbling noise, he falls to the ground convulsing, blood froth pouring from his nose and mouth. _

_I turn to the Overseer, muscles tensed. "Because he's dead," I sneer at him, and then take off running through the halls, pumping my arms, cycling my legs as fast as I can, only one thought echoing through my head. _

_Escape. Escape._

_Escape. _


End file.
